Losing You
by King Shota
Summary: We all have those insanely perfect moments. Marco Bodt was Jean's fleeting impression of a beautiful, crazy miracle- and he loved him for it. He always knew that Marco was way too good to be true. Of course, one day, like all of us, Jean Kirschtein had to wake up.


"It's getting late."

"Yeah, I know," Marco answered quietly, gazing at Jean softly. His warm, brown eyes were drowsy as he let out a small yawn. Jean played with his hand, entwining their fingers slowly.

"Do you have to go?" he questioned, trying to squash the pleading note in his voice. Jean Kirschtein didn't plead. Ever.

"I don't _have_ to," Marco replied, a small smile gracing his lips. "I just didn't know you wanted me to stay."

The latter scoffed. "Oh, please." He returned the grin, leaning up to press his lips to Marco's forehead softly. Marco's own lips twitched, and he wrapped his arms loosely around Jean's waist, holding him gently.

Jean let out a small, contented sigh, shifting slightly on the couch in order for Marco to have more room. "…I love you so much, y'know?"

Marco laughed sleepily. "Of course I know, stupid. I love you, too."

Jean smirked. "With all your heart?" he teased, and Marco rolled his eyes.

"With all my heart," he vowed, resting his head on Jean's collarbone as he began to drift off to sleep.

Jean smiled in earnest, listening to his slow, shallow breaths. He could feel Marco's heartbeat, which gradually slowed. His chest rose up, and down. Up, and down again.

Jean couldn't really imagine any sort of reality without Marco—even his life before him was blurry. It was weird.

But what was even weirder was that Jean Kirschtein was in love.

Closing his eyes, Jean's head drooped, his hands pressed to Marco's as sleep took him slowly into its arms.

Sunlight streamed through the dark curtains as Jean's eyes opened. Marco's chest rose and fell peacefully beside him, his face relaxed. Jean sat up slowly, trying his best not to wake him as he slithered off the couch and out of Marco's grasp, removing his hands carefully. He rubbed his eyes blearily, shuffling into the bathroom and brushing his teeth. He was surprised that he'd woken up before Marco—Jean was a deep sleeper, whereas his boyfriend was not.

Boyfriend. Even though they'd been dating for over a year and a half, it was still strange, calling him that.

But it was a good strange.

Jean rinsed out his mouth and let out a yawn, working a kink out of his back and walking back downstairs into the living room to find the couch empty. Jean's eyebrows furrowed for a moment. "Marco?" he called quietly, blinking.

"Right here," came the answer. Marco peered out of the kitchen and grinned. "I made breakfast."

Jean stared at him in surprise. "Seriously?" he asked, an incredulous expression on his face. He'd gotten so used to eating Pop tarts and burnt toast in the morning that he'd sort of forgotten what real food tasted like.

Marco laughed, pressing a plate of scrambled eggs into Jean's hands and sitting him down on the couch. "Seriously. Did you forget I can cook?"

Jean snorted, shoveling eggs into his mouth. "Nah. How could I?"

Marco rolled his eyes, smiling softly. "I've got to go to work today."

Jean groaned. "Can't you just call in sick?"

"That's not how it works, unfortunately. I just did last Monday." Marco pecked his forehead. "I'll stay home with you tomorrow."

"Promise?" Jean mumbled, yawning again.

"Yes, Jean. I promise. We can lie around all day," Marco vowed, smoothing the wrinkles from sleep out of his clothes.

Jean stood up and hugged him tightly, feeling Marco's strong arms enveloping him. "Love you," he murmured into his shirt, breathing him in. Marco was still about an inch taller than him, and it killed him.

Marco chuckled, resting his chin on top of Jean's hair. "I love you, too." He released him reluctantly and opened the door quietly, disappearing outside into the bright sunlight.

Jean swallowed mutely, Marco's silhouette now just a vague impression on his eyes.

Tonight.

Tonight, he was going to propose.


End file.
